by Diane Kelly
After a half hour of ballet, we switched to jazz. Tonight we added the last thirty-two counts to our routine, choreographed to the classic favorite All That Jazz. The dance was coming along nicely, only a few minor issues with spacing and timing remained to be fixed. The youngest girls sometimes had trouble keeping count, but who could blame them when’d they’d only recently learned their 1-2-3’s? Besides, what many lacked in precision they made up for in adorability. I had no doubt this year’s recital would be our best yet.
“Toes pointed on the hitch kicks, gang,” I called out.
Once the kicks were completed, we launched into the finale, a series of poses that changed every four counts and tested the limits of the dancers’ flexibility and strength. While the girls engaged in feminine poses with arms upstretched and hips cocked, Riley and Brendan’s poses included bicep curls and manly stances akin to those employed by bodybuilders.
When the music ended. I gave the dancers only a few seconds to rest before cueing the song up a second time. “Let’s run it again. I want to see stronger arms this time. Don’t rush the axles. And get those legs up high on the illusions.”
Anguished groans met my ears. I shook my finger at the class. “No whining. Practice makes perfect.”
Brendan, like many of the others, stood bent over with his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He stuck his tongue out at me. I stuck mine out at him in reply, then quickly turned so he wouldn’t catch my grin.
We ran through the dance again. Still not happy with the axles.
“Across the floor, axles only,” I called. Two-by-two, the dancers performed a series of the maneuvers across the floor and back again, repeating their axles until I was satisfied each and every one of them had the technique down pat.
We returned to the full routine and ran through the song three more times. They had the dance perfected now, axles and all. “You got it, gang.”
Cries of relief met my ears now. Okay, so maybe I was a bit of a drill sergeant. But I refused to coddle my students. I had high expectations of them, challenged them to be the best dancers they could be. I designed difficult choreography that forced them to push themselves, to take risks, to realize they were capable of much more than they’d realized. When I gave compliments, they knew they’d earned them and could feel genuinely proud. My teaching style was intense, sure, but it was effective. Every one of my students performed at a level rarely seen at their ages. For a ragtag bunch, our troupe had impressive skills.
Our jazz class now complete, we changed into our tap shoes. I pulled Riley’s enormous shoes out of my bag and tossed them to my son. Riley checked out the bottom of his shoes, poking the new taps with his index finger to ensure they were firmly in place.
“Take it easy on those new taps,” I warned.
He slid his right foot into the shoe and yanked on the laces, looking up at me from under his shaggy bangs. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be careful.”
I didn’t believe him for a second. No doubt I’d be replacing the taps again in a month or two. The kid couldn’t help himself.
I cued up Jailhouse Rock and we ran through our tap number twice. The choreography was energetic, taking full advantage of the fast-paced beat with lots of quick footwork. Riley, as expected, stomped the ground as if trying to wake the dead. Careful, my ass. Brendan was right. Boys will be boys. Apparently men will be men, too. Brendan was nearly as bad as Riley, his taps as loud as gunfire as he stamped around the room. Probably to be expected from a former rugby player used to giving his all. He treated dance as a blood sport, too.
“Remember to count carefully,” I reminded the class. “Be sure to get all your sounds in.” Getting the dancers’ taps in synch was always a challenge. When we’d first begun working on this piece several weeks ago, the routine sounded like a cacophony of off-beat jackhammers. But now, the dancers hit their sounds together, even on the difficult wings and pullbacks.
When we finished, I gave the exhausted group two thumbs up. “You nailed it!”
I received an assortment of relieved cries and several weary though sincere smiles in reply. Anyone who thought dancing was for sissies was dead wrong. Riley’d told me time and time again that my class was far more strenuous than his basketball practices.
At eight thirty, the majority of the dancers were dismissed, only the members of my smaller Irish step class remaining. With last names like Ramirez, Zwerdemann, and Ngoku, not all were of Irish descent. But there were a Maloney and an O’Leary in the bunch, and we Irish-Americans enjoyed sharing this part of our culture with the others. The dancers’ parts in the routines varied by age and skill level, but I gave everyone a moment in the spotlight. Each of my ten students performed a twenty-four-count solo in one routine or another.
We slipped into our hard shoes. Once they’d changed their footwear, everyone stood, awaiting further instruction.
I stepped into the center of the room. “We’ve only got a month to clean up these dances before the Irish Festival,” I reminded them. “Let’s work on the finale, starting from the circle formation.”
Our circle tended to lose its shape, sometimes opening into a “C” when a dancer fell behind or turning into an oval when we’d shifted too far to the back of the space. But with any luck we’d perfect the routines by the day of the festival, scheduled for the weekend before Saint Patrick’s Day.
The students quickly formed a circle, the smaller ones strategically placed between taller dancers. Riley stood at the back center with a skinny, spunky nine-year-old blonde separating him from Brendan to his left. I cued up the music and slid into place on the other side of Brendan.
I called out the counts as we began to move. “One-and-two-and-three-and-toe stand, treble shuffle, now the threes.”
Threes were a basic Irish step move, akin to skipping, often performed in a circle. I glanced around as I danced. Everyone seemed to be in good form tonight. Especially Brendan. Then again, he was always in good form to me.
I called out reminders over the music. “Toes out! Feet crossed! Shoulders back!”
The students focused, their moves fluid, our hard work finally falling into place.
“Looking good, everyone!” I turned to face Brendan.
He looked at me, flashing his chipped-tooth smile, and I nearly forgot the next move. What was it? Oh, yeah. Half of those in the circle danced clockwise, while the others went counter-clockwise, joining arms at the elbow and swirling around in a circle, then letting go and moving on to the next dancer like an Irish do-si-do. When Riley reached the youngest dancer, a tiny curly-haired five-year-old, he scooped her up and swung her in a circle. She remembered to keep her toes pointed this time. She giggled as they spun, a look of absolute glee on her face. After eight turns, Riley set her back down on the floor. She wobbled slightly, but managed to stay on her feet this time, spotting a point on the far wall as I’d advised in order to prevent dizziness.
“Good job!”
Our circle now morphed into two lines, the back line tapping out beats and kicking up our heels as we moved forward, those in the front line doing the same maneuver as they moved backward. After we weaved around each other, the front line moved two steps to the left while the back took two steps to the right. We circled around each other once more before forming one long line, draping our arms over the shoulders of the dancers to each side, chorus style.
As we girls launched into high kicks, Riley and Brendan stood to the side, clapping their hands and stomping one foot, cheering us on. “Aye! Aye! Aye!”
I watched in the mirror as we completed the can-can. Every leg was straight, every toe pointed. Flawless. The Rockettes could eat their hearts out. “Spot on, girls!”
The song ended with the group hustling together into a final pose. Riley and Brendan stood back-to-back in the center with their arms crossed over their chests like a couple of tough guys. Britney faced Riley with her palm flat on Riley’s chest, one leg crooked sassily up behind her. I mirrored h
er on the other side, facing Brendan, my leg bent up behind me, my hand flat on his warm chest. I could feel his heart beating fast and strong through his sweatshirt and found myself wishing I could put my hand directly on his skin, that I could make his heart race in a more intimate way. I longed to touch him, to get to know all the parts of his body, yet it would be wrong, forbidden. How long could I endure this sweet torture? How long would I be able to restrain myself?
It was becoming more and more difficult to fight the yearnings I felt for Brendan. One of these days, I just might snap. And then what? God only knew what would happen then.
As for now, I was teaching a dance class and I needed to focus. Focus!
The other girls huddled in front of us on their knees, the teeny five-year old on her belly in front, her little head perched on her hands, smiling an adorable gap-toothed grin. The wall-to-wall mirror reflected our group.
“1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8,” I counted through my teeth like a ventriloquist as we held the pose. “Now break and bow.” We stood, stepped apart, and bowed in unison. “Now sidestep to stage right and don’t forget to keep smiling.”
They did just as they were told. I clapped my hands and raised my fists in triumph. “Woo hoo! We did it, gang!”
The group exchanged satisfied smiles, high-fives, and a couple of whistles.
We practiced the finale again, then ran through each of our other group dance numbers once. We had our hornpipe routine down precisely, and the soft-shoed slip jig looked just as polished. Riley shot me a wink just before he raised Britney over his head, his gaze drifting up to her bright red butt. Yep, boys will be boys.
When class was over, Riley picked up Britney’s dance bag and slung it over his shoulder. As usual, he followed Britney out to the parking lot to wait for her ride. The pink tint on Britney’s cheeks as she left the room was only partly from the dancing. Clearly Riley had an affect on her. No wonder, really. He’d always be my baby boy, but there was no denying that he’d become an attractive young man. Tall, smart, confident, and friendly. What more could a girl ask for? I just hoped he wouldn’t follow in his father’s footsteps and charm the pants off a girl before either of them was ready. Thank goodness he didn’t like chocolate sauce.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DANCE PARTNERS
After the others left, Brendan and I were alone in the room. His sleeveless sweatshirt was damp and stuck to his chest, evidencing the effort he’d put into his dancing. Somehow he even made sweat look sexy. Janey Mack, I was totally smitten, wasn’t I? He slipped his sweatshirt over his head and I tried to avert my eyes. But with those solid pecs and firm abs, it was hard not to sneak a peek. He had just the right amount of dark chest hair. Enough to look manly without appearing ape-like. What I wouldn’t give to run my fingers through it . . . while nuzzling his neck . . . nibbling on an earlobe.
As if any of that could ever happen. Ugh. Why did daydreams have to be so frustrating?
Brendan tossed his sweatshirt into his open bag, pulled out a fresh white tee, and put it on. “Wan to run through our duet?”
He didn’t have to ask me twice. Our duet was my favorite of all the numbers by far. It was the only song in which Brendan and I were alone on the dance floor, just the two of us, each of us focusing solely on the other. The choreography was flirtatious and fun, and I’d been sure to slip in plenty of moves that put Brendan’s body in close proximity with mine. Hey, it’s not my fault if the crowds enjoy a little romantic innuendo, right? Gotta give ‘em what they want. Of course, dancing closely with Brendan was what I wanted, too, but that was beside the point. Dancing was the only way I could get close to him physically that wouldn’t get us in trouble with the church.
After sliding into my dance heels, I cued up our song, Michael Bublé’s Sway, a playful yet sensual number. We ran to our starting spots across the room, facing each other. When the music began, Brendan entered from stage right, snapping his fingers and strutting, falling to his knees in the middle of the stage to wait for me. I danced in from stage left, moving in teasing circles around him as he knelt on the floor. He watched me intently as I came in close and retreated, performing leaps and turns. After thirty-two counts, I stopped in front of him and put my foot on his chest. He wrapped his fingers around my ankle and stood, my leg rising with him. He stepped toward me, stretching my leg up to his shoulder until I was essentially doing a standing split against him.
It was provocative, sexy, an impressive dance move that accentuated my flexibility. I wondered if Brendan had noticed.
His hands slid down to my waist. Mmm, I loved that move. I turned away from him—reluctantly—executing a fan kick that took my foot off his shoulder and returned it to the floor.
We continued on, the dance moves bringing us together then taking us apart as we made our way through the routine. Each time we approached each other, looking into each other’s faces, my heart rate sped up. At the rate things were going, my veins would explode by the end of the dance.
We were near the end of the song when we got to the dip. I twirled around Brendan and fell back into his waiting arms. My chest, heaving from exertion, was only inches from his face. I tried to control my breathing, but couldn’t. I looked up into his face, that gorgeous, masculine face I never tired of looking at. His gaze met mine and locked. After four beats, he was supposed to use his hand on my back to catapult me to my feet, but he seemed to have forgotten his part, staring into my eyes with a complicated look of longing mixed with anguish.
The look of a man conflicted.
His face was so close to mine now I could feel his soft breath on my lips. His eyes flickered to my mouth, as if he were thinking of kissing me. Oh, how I wanted to kiss him, too, to close those mere inches between us, to show him how I felt about him. To see how he responded, determine whether he felt the same way about me. But if I kissed Brendan I’d lose him, lose what we had. If we kissed, we’d have to acknowledge this . . . this thing, whatever it was, between us. And if we acknowledged it, then we’d have to conquer it, whatever it took. We’d have to stop spending time together, put some distance between us to avoid further temptation.
What we had was woefully inadequate—God knew I wanted so much more!—yet it was the most I could have, all I could ever hope for.
And I couldn’t risk losing it.
When I realized we’d missed ten beats, I struggled to stand. Brendan seemed to realize he’d missed the count, too. I had to run double time to my next position to try to get back in rhythm. But it was hopeless. We were totally off count, totally out of place. Everything was out of synch. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
I ran over to the stereo and turned off the music, unable to turn back to Brendan, to see that look on his face, to acknowledge what had just happened—or almost happened—between us. I’d been right about last night, hadn’t I? When he’d hugged me, held me in his arms in his driveway, it hadn’t been merely a friendly gesture. It was an attempt to be close to me, as a man to a woman.
Brendan stepped up behind me, his chest only inches from my back. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, and I yearned to give in, to lean back against him, to bridge the gap between us.
Brendan’s voice was soft but pained. “Let’s try again, Erin. Start over. See if we can get it right this time.”
I had a feeling he wasn’t only talking about the dance.
Before I could answer, Riley stuck his head in the door, interrupting us. “Britney’s father just picked her up. Ready to go, Mom?”
I nodded. Without another word, Brendan and I gathered our things and packed our bags. He grabbed both his bag and mine to carry them out. As we stepped back into the hallway, a pudgy man dripping sweat came out of the gym, the open door behind him releasing the sounds of shouting, feet running up and down the court, basketballs bouncing. Through the open door, we could see the three boys who’d hassled Riley earlier.
Riley’s eyes locked on them, an intense look on his face. Before I knew what was happening, he
’d tossed his duffle aside and grabbed the door just before it swung closed, throwing it open again.
“Riley!” I started after my son.
Brendan shifted the bags he was carrying to one hand, grabbed my arm, and pulled me back. “No, Erin. Let him go.”
I looked up at Brendan. “And stand by doing nothing while those boys kick his ass?”
Brendan shook his head and gestured toward the gym. “That’s not going to happen.”
We stepped up to the glass and watched as Riley jogged along the side of the court. He waited for just the right moment then stormed in, snatching the ball out of the air just before the pimple-faced white boy caught it. Surprise and anger registered on the kid’s face, his expression changing to admiration as Riley raced toward the basket, the three boys trailing at least four steps behind.
Riley executed a perfect layup and swoosh. Slam dunk.
Brendan slid his arm around me and chuckled. “That’s our boy.”
“Yeah,” I agreed on a breath of relief.
Okay, so Riley wasn’t exactly our boy. Not in a genetic sense. But while Matthew may have been the one to father Riley and to teach Riley the basics of basketball during their summer visits, Brendan was the one who’d helped Riley refine his skills, practicing with him day after day in our driveway or on the court at the church, even coaching Saint Tony’s children’s basketball team when Riley was younger. The fact that Riley and Brendan did not share DNA in no way diminished their relationship. Water can sometimes be as thick as blood.
In the gym, Riley ran in circles around the three boys, all of whom had teamed up against him in a desperate yet futile attempt to regain the ball. Riley weaved expertly around them and performed another perfect layup, another slam dunk. For his last hurrah, he ran halfway down the court and shot a three-pointer, the ball dropping smack center into the net.
